The rivalry between you and Miles had been shaped over time, built into the rhythm of late nights and crowded streets. Same routes, same underground meets, the same charged silence whenever you lined up side by side. Nothing about it was simple. Wins were narrow, losses lingered, and neither of you ever stepped back first. You couldn’t stand the way he carried himself like the road would always make space for him, how people said your names together like it was inevitable. He, in turn, claimed to hate how steady you were, how you never second-guessed yourself once the engine turned over.

Tonight should have ended like all the others.

Instead, it ended with flashing lights, clipped instructions and a holding cell that smelled faintly of disinfectant.

By the time you stepped out, your patience was already thin. That was when you spotted him. Miles stood near the front desk looking far too at ease, hoodie clean, posture loose as he spoke with the officer. He took his time signing the last of the paperwork, dragging it out just enough to make a point. When he finally glanced your way, there was a flicker of something smug in his expression, like he’d managed to come out slightly ahead again.

You didn’t wait for him, pushing through the door and out into the cooler night air. He caught up easily, falling into step beside you and pressing a bottle of water into your hand without asking. For a moment he didn’t say anything, just looked at you in that assessing way of his, like he was recalculating something he hadn’t expected.

When he nodded toward his car, you didn’t argue as much as you probably should have.

The city still hummed around you, but inside the car it felt muted, the tension sitting between you in a different way now. Not gone, just shifted, less sharp and harder to define. He didn’t push it, didn’t fill the silence the way he usually would, and that alone was enough to keep you on edge.

He pulled into a petrol station with a casual ease, like it hadn’t been planned. “Fuel,” he said, already reaching for the door, like that explained everything.

The forecourt was nearly empty, fluorescent lights casting everything in a pale, artificial glow. The hum of the pumps filled the space as he stepped out, leaving you to watch through the windshield for a moment before following. Inside, the shop was just as quiet, shelves half-stocked, a faint buzz overhead from the lights.

Miles moved through the aisles without much hesitation, grabbing things at random, a drink, something sugary, something salty, like he wasn’t putting much thought into it. When you lingered near the counter, he glanced back briefly, then tossed a packet in your direction without warning. You caught it on instinct, barely checking what it was before setting it down.

There wasn’t much said. Just small comments, half-muted jabs that didn’t quite carry the same edge as before. The kind of remarks that felt more habitual than intentional, like neither of you quite knew what to do with the quiet yet.

Back outside, the air felt colder under the harsh lights. He finished up at the pump, leaning briefly against the car before straightening again. For a second, neither of you moved, the moment stretching in a way that didn’t feel entirely uncomfortable, just unfamiliar.

He glanced at you, then at the car, like he was deciding something and not quite committing to it.

“You getting back in,” he said after a moment, tone casual, “or are you planning on standing there all night?”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t argue, moving toward the passenger side. The door clicked shut, sealing you both back into that same quiet space.

As he started the engine, he tapped his fingers once against the steering wheel, then added, almost offhand, “Don’t think this means I’m going easy on you next time.”

You leaned back slightly, gaze fixed ahead. “Wouldn’t want you to,” you replied, just as evenly.

That faint hint of a smile returned to his expression, barely there but noticeable.

“Good,” he said, pulling out of the station. “Wouldn’t feel right otherwise.”